Tamed

  Leaning against the chair, I say, “Did you hear Kate’s close to signing the Pharamatab account?”

  Still not looking up, he mutters grumpily, “Yeah, I heard.”

  I smirk. “You better step it up, man. If she makes that deal, your old man’s gonna be so psyched I wouldn’t be surprised if he wants to adopt her. And incest—even between adopted siblings—is illegal in New York.”

  Busting balls is what friends do. It’s the equivalent of women giving those half-cheek half-air kisses to each other. A sign of affection.

  “But I guess incest wouldn’t be an option anyway, with the way she keeps shooting you down.”

  “Blow me.”

  I chuckle. “Not tonight, dear. I have a headache.” Then I walk toward the door. “Have a good one.”

  “Later.”

  After leaving the office I hop on the subway, like I do every day after work, to go to the gym. It’s in Brooklyn, a real bare bones kind of place. Some would call it a dump, but to me it’s a diamond in the rough. The floor is hard and dirty and worn red punching bags line the back wall. There are weights stacked in front of a cracked mirror, a milk crate filled with jump ropes beside the lone rowing machine. There aren’t any spandex-wearing, bored housewives looking to hook up or show off their latest cosmetic enhancement. There are no elliptical machines or high-tech treadmills like the ones that can be found in the workout room of my building. I come here to sweat and strain my muscles to their limit with time-tested calisthenics. And most of all, I come for the boxing ring in the center of the gym.

  I was twelve the first time I watched Rocky. It takes place in Philly, but it could’ve been in New York. I’ve been a fan of boxing ever since. I’m not going to quit the day job to train for the heavyweight title or anything, but there’s no better workout than a few rounds in the ring against a decent opponent.

  Ronny Butler—the fiftyish, stubbly chinned guy in the gray sweatshirt with the thick gold crucifix around his neck who’s in the ring’s corner, yelling out critiques to the two sparring partners dancing around each other—he’s the owner. Ronny’s no Mickey, but he’s a good man, and an even better trainer.

  Through the years, I’ve pieced together bits of information he’s let slip when I’ve been the last one here at closing. In the late eighties, Ronny was a Wall Street big shot, living the dream. Then, on a Friday night, he and his family were driving out to the Hamptons for the weekend. Because he’d gotten jammed up at work, they’d had a late start, and a drowsy truck driver nodded off at the wheel, flew across the median into oncoming traffic—and smacked headfirst into Ronny’s BMW. He made it out of the accident with a concussion and a shattered femur. His wife and daughter didn’t make it out at all.

  He spent a few years drowning in a bottle, a few more sobering up. Then he used the settlement money to buy this place. He doesn’t come off as bitter or sad, but I wouldn’t say he’s happy either. I think the gym keeps him going, gives him a reason to get up in the morning.

  “Back up, Shawnasee!” Ronny yells at the fighter who’s got his sparring partner pinned against the ropes, pummeling his ribs. “This isn’t Vegas, for fuck’s sake, let the guy breathe.”

  That Shawnasee kid’s an asshole. You know the type—young, hot-headed, the kind of prick who would get out of his car to beat down some poor schmuck for cutting him off on the freeway. Which is another reason I like boxing—it’s the perfect opportunity to put idiots in their places without being charged with assault. Shawnasee’s been trying to goad me into the ring for a few months now, but it’s no fun fighting someone with piss-poor technique. No matter how hard they hit, they’ve got no shot at winning. I’m waiting until he gets better—then I’ll kick his ass.

  I catch Ronny’s eye as he breaks up the fighters and greet him with a nod. Then I head back to the locker room, change out of my suit, and hit the bag for half an hour. Next, I use the rowing machine until my biceps are screaming and my legs feel like Jell-O. I finish off with ten minutes of speed jump roping, which might sound easy, but it’s not. You try jumping rope for half that time and I’ll bet you feel like you’re going into cardiac arrest.

  When the ring is empty, I climb in and go three rounds against Joe Wilson, an uptown lawyer I’ve sparred with before. Joe puts up a good fight, but the session clearly goes my way. Afterward, we tap gloves affably, and I go back into the locker room and grab my stuff. I smack Ronny’s back on the way out, jog to the subway, and catch my train home.

  I’m not ashamed to say my parents hooked me up with my apartment after college—in those days, this place was slightly above my pay grade. The location is great—walking distance to the office and a killer view of Central Park. Because I’ve lived here since college, it lacks the stylish consistency you’d typically expect in the home of a successful businessman. Take a look around.

  Black leather sofas face a big-screen television with a top-of-the-line sound and gaming system sitting on the glass shelves below it. The coffee table is also glass, but it’s chipped around the edges from years of contact with reclining feet and glass bottles. A shadowy painting of a mountaintop by a renowned Japanese artist hangs on one wall, and my prized collection of vintage baseball caps hangs from hooks opposite it. A lighted display case is perched in the corner, showing off the crystal etched EXCELLENCE IN INVESTMENT MANAGEMENT award I received last year . . . and the authentic Boba Fett helmet that was worn during the filming of The Empire Strikes Back. Built in, dark-wood bookshelves are lined with collectible sports memorabilia, books on art, photography, and banking, and about a dozen mismatched frames with photographs of family and friends from the best times in my life. Photographs I took myself.

  Photography is a hobby of mine. You’ll hear more about that later.

  In the dining room, instead of a totally useless formal set of table and chairs, there’s a pool table and a Space Invaders arcade game. But my kitchen is fully set up—black granite counters, Italian marble floors, stainless steel appliances, and cookware that Emeril would be honored to own. I like to cook, and I do it well.

  The way to a man’s heart may be through his stomach—but it’s also the most direct route down a girl’s pants. For women, a guy who knows his way around a kitchen is a big selling point. Tell me I’m wrong.

  Anyway, my apartment is kick-ass. It’s large, but comfortable, impressive without being intimidating. After hosing down in the glass-enclosed, triple-headed shower, I towel off and spend a minute looking at my reflection in the full-length mirror. My normally light brown hair is dark from being wet and sticks up at odd angles from the towel. I could use a cut—it gets pretty-boy curly if I let it grow too long. I rub the stubble along my squared jaw, but I don’t feel like shaving. I turn to the side and flex my bicep, proud of the muscle that bulges. I’m not bulky like a meathead, but I’m tight, lean, and powerful, without a centimeter to pinch from my six pack, let alone an inch.

  Checking myself out in a mirror might seem douchey to you, but, trust me—all guys do it. We just don’t like to be caught doing it. But when you put as much time into your body as I do, the payoff makes it worth it.

  I pull on a pair of silk boxers then heat up a bowl of leftover pasta and chicken. I’m not Italian, but I’d eat this every day of the week if I could. It’s about eight thirty by the time I finish washing the dishes. Yes, I am a man who washes his own dishes.

  Be jealous, ladies—I’m a rare breed.

  Then I flop back on my awesome, king-size bed and grab the golden ticket from the pocket of my discarded pants.

  I finger the letters on the bright green cardstock.

  DEE WARREN

  CHEMIST

  LINTRUM FUELS

  And I remember the soft, smooth flesh that swelled from the confines of her tight, pink shirt. My dick twitches—guess he remembers it too.

  Normally I’d wait a day or two to call a girl like Delores. Timing is everything. Looking too eager is a rookie mistake—women enjoy being panted after
by puppies, not men.

  But it’s already Wednesday night, and I’m hoping to meet up with Dee on Friday. The twenty-first century is the age of “Maybe He’s Just Not That Into You” and “Dating for Dummies” and “The Girlfriends’ Guide to Dating,” which means calling a chick for a random hookup isn’t as easy as it used to be. There are all these frigging rules now—I found that out the hard way.

  Like if a guy wants to meet up with you the same night that he calls, you’re supposed to say “no,” because that means he doesn’t respect you. And, if he wants to take you out on a Tuesday, that’s a sign he’s got better plans for Saturday night.

  Trying to keep up with the changing edicts is tougher than keeping track of the goddamn health care debate in Congress. It’s like a minefield—one wrong step and your cock won’t be getting any action for a long time. But, if getting laid were easy, everyone would be doing it. It . . . and pretty much nothing else.

  Which brings me to my next thought: I know feminists always complain about how men have all the power. But when it comes to dating—in America, at least? That’s not really the case. In the bars, on the weekends, it’s ladies’ choice 24/7. They have their pick of the litter because single men will never reject a come-on.

  Picture it: The music’s pumping, bodies are grinding, and a non-hideous female approaches a dude having a drink at the bar. She says, “I want to fuck your brains out.” He replies, “Nah, I’m not really in the mood for sex tonight.” SAID NO MAN EVER.

  Chicks never have to worry about getting shot down—as long as they’re not shooting too far above their pay grade. They never have to stress about when they’re going to get lucky. For women, sex is an all-you-can-eat buffet—they just have to choose a dish. God created men with a strong sex drive to ensure the survival of the species. Be fruitful and multiply and all that. For guys like me, who know what the fuck they’re doing, it’s not exactly difficult. But for my not-as-skilled brethren, getting some can be a daunting task.

  A slight buzz of adrenaline rushes through me as I pick up the phone to dial the cell number on the business card. It’s not that I feel nervous, more like . . . cautious anticipation. My hand taps my leg in time to Enter Sandman by Metallica, and my stomach tightens as her phone rings.

  I imagine she’ll remember me—I did make quite the impression after all, and I assume she’ll be receptive to a meeting up—maybe even eager. What I don’t expect is for her voice to slam into my eardrum as she yells: “No, jackass, I don’t want to hear the song again! Frigging call Kate if you need an audience!”

  I pull the phone a little ways away from my ear. And I check the number to make sure it’s the right one. It is.

  Then I say, “Uh . . . hello? Is this Dee?”

  There’s a pause as she realizes I’m not jackass.

  Then she replies, “Yes, this is Dee. Who’s this?”

  “Hey, it’s Matthew Fisher. I work with Kate—we met at the diner this afternoon?”

  Another brief pause, and then her voice lightens, “Oh yeah. Clit-boy, right?”

  I chuckle deeply, not entirely sure I like that nickname, but at least I made my mark. Note to self: Use that line again.

  “That’s me.”

  “Sorry about yelling. My cousin’s been up my ass all day.”

  My cock stirs from the ass talk, and I have to stop myself from offering to trade places with this cousin.

  “What can I do for you, Matthew Fisher?”

  My imagination gets crazy. And detailed. Oh, the things she could do . . .

  For a moment I wonder if she’s talking like this on purpose or if I’m just a horny mess.

  I play it safe. “I was wondering if you wanted to get together sometime? For a drink?”

  Let’s pause right here. Because, despite my earlier complaints about the modern complexities men face when trying to hook up, I feel it’s my duty to educate others, get the word out, about how to decode guy-speak. Think of me as a studlier version of Edward Snowden or Julian Assange. Maybe I should start my own website—I’d call it DickiLeaks. On second thought, that’s a shitty name. Sounds like an STD symptom.

  Remember the mental game of “fuck, kill, marry” I mentioned earlier? If a man asks you to get a drink or hang out, you are squarely in the “fuck” category. Nope, don’t argue—it’s true. If a guy asks you for a date or dinner, maybe even a movie, you’re probably in the “fuck” category, but you have potential for upward mobility.

  You don’t have to base your response to a dude’s proposition on this information; I just thought you’d want to know.

  Now, back to the phone conversation.

  I can hear a smile in her voice as she accepts my invite. “I’m always up for a drink.”

  Up. More sexual innuendo. Definitely not my imagination. I am so getting laid.

  “Cool. You free on Friday?”

  Silence meets my ears for a beat, until she suggests, “How about tonight?”

  Wow. Guess Delores Warren missed the chapter requiring two days’ advance notice for all screwing offers.

  Lucky me.

  And then she elaborates. “I mean, there could be a blackout, a water shortage, aliens could finally decide to invade and enslave the entire human race . . .”

  There’s one I haven’t heard before.

  “Then we’d be shit out of luck. Why wait for Friday?”

  I like the way this girl thinks. As the saying goes, “Don’t put off till tomorrow anyone you could be doing today.” Or . . . close enough.

  “Tonight works for me,” I readily agree. “What time?”

  Some girls take forever and a day to get ready. It’s fucking annoying. Going to the gym or the beach? Shouldn’t require prep time, ladies.

  “How about an hour?”

  Two points for Dee—great tits and low maintenance. I think I’m in love.

  “Sounds good,” I tell her. “What’s your address? I’ll swing by and pick you up.”

  My building has private parking for tenants. Lots of New Yorkers spend thousands of dollars a month for parking spaces—only to not drive their cars because of city traffic. Auto congestion doesn’t bug me; I always leave myself extra time. Like I said before—time management is key.

  And another thing: I don’t have a car. I drive a custom-built Ducati Monster 1100 S. I’m not looking to put on a cut and join an outlaw MC or anything, but riding is another hobby of mine. Few things in life feel as great as cruising down an open highway on a blue-skied, crisp fall day when the leaves are just starting to change. It’s as close to flying as a human being can get.

  I take the bike out at every available opportunity. Sometimes a girl will bitch about being cold or messing up her hair—but when all is said and done: Chicks dig motorcycles.

  Delores responds, “Um . . . how about I just meet you?”

  This is a smart move for a single woman. Just like you wouldn’t give out your social security number online, you don’t give out your address to some guy you barely know. The world is a fucked-up place, and women especially need to do everything they can to make sure the fucked up doesn’t find its way to their front door.

  But, unfortunately, it also means the hog is staying home tonight. I’m a little sad about that.

  “Meeting up sounds good.”

  Before I can suggest a place, Dee takes charge. “You know Stitch’s, on West Thirty-seventh?”

  I do know it. It’s low-key with good drinks, live music, and a comfortable lounge. Because it’s a Wednesday night, it won’t be packed, but no bar in New York is ever empty.

  “Yeah, I’m familiar with it.”

  “Great. I’ll see you in an hour or so.”

  “Awesome.”

  After we hang up, I don’t get dressed right away. I’m not picky about my clothes, like some young semi-asexual professionals, but I’m not a slob either. I can be ready to walk out the door in seven minutes flat. So I grab the folder from my briefcase and use the extra time to finish th
e work reading I planned to do before bed. Because it looks like I won’t be hitting the sheets any time soon—and when I do, I’m definitely not going to be alone.

  Chapter 3

  I get to Stitch’s early. I drink a beer at the bar, then step outside for a cigarette. Yes—I’m a smoker. Break out the hammer and nails and commence with the crucifixion.

  I’m aware it’s unhealthy. I don’t need to see the internal organs of deceased cancer patients on those creepy-ass commercials to understand it’s a bad habit—thank you, Mayor Bloomberg. Making me go outside doesn’t stop me from lighting up—it just pisses me off. It’s an inconvenience, not a deterrent.

  But I’m considerate about it. I don’t toss my butts on the street, I don’t blow smoke in the faces of the elderly or children. Alexandra would literally slit my throat if I ever lit up anywhere near Mackenzie. Literally.

  I do plan on quitting . . . eventually.

  But for now, the long-term damage I might be doing to my lungs falls second to the fact that I like to smoke. It feels good. It’s really just that simple. And you can keep your bar pretzels to yourself, because nothing goes better with a cold beer than a cigarette. It’s as good as a mom’s old-fashioned PB&J.

  I snuff out my cigarette on the wall of the building and throw it into the trash can on the street. Then I pop an Altoids in my mouth. Because—like I said—I’m considerate. I don’t know if Dee is a fellow smoker or not, but nobody wants to slide their tongue into another person’s mouth and taste ashtray. And getting Dee’s tongue in my mouth . . . among other places . . . is definitely on the schedule for tonight’s festivities.

  I head back in the bar and order a second beer. I take a swig and notice the front door opening. I watch as she walks in.

  Did I think Delores was a hottie when I met her this afternoon? I need to get my vision checked. Because she’s so much more.

  Her strawberry blond hair is down, curled under at the ends, pulled back from her face with a thick black hair band. A black, tuxedo-like jacket covers her torso, with a low-cut white tube top underneath. Short, white shorts barely peek out from the bottom of the jacket, revealing long, creamy, toned legs. She finishes the look with white sky-high heels. Red lipstick accentuates her mouth.

  She’s gorgeous—shockingly stunning. Put her in a black-and-white photo and she could easily be in a Calvin Klein campaign. Her business card isn’t Charlie’s Golden Ticket—it’s the lottery kind—and I just hit the jackpot.

  She scans the room and spots me from the doorway. I wave, coolly. She smiles back, revealing straight, shiny teeth.

  “Hi,” she says as she approaches.

  “Hello—that jacket looks great on you.” You can’t go wrong by starting off with a compliment. Girls love them.

  Her smile turns into a smirk as she teases, “Let me guess—‘But I’d look better out of it’?”

  I chuckle. “I wasn’t going to say that. I would never give a line that cheesy.” Then I shrug. “I was going to say, ‘It’d look even better on my bedroom floor.’ ”

  A rich, deep laugh escapes her throat. “Yeah—’cause there’s nothing cheesy about that.”

  I pull out a bar stool and she sits.

  “What’s your poison?” I ask.

  Without a pause she answers, “Martini.”

  “Dirty?”

  “I like my martinis just like my sex.” She winks flirtatiously. “Dirty is always better.”

  Yes—I’m definitely in love.

  The bartender comes to us, but before I can order for her, Dee starts giving specific instructions on how she wants her drink made.

  “Two ounces of gin, heavy on the vermouth, just a dash of olive juice . . .”

  The babyfaced, plaid-shirted bartender, who barely looks twenty-one, seems lost. Dee notices and stands up. “You know, I’ll just demonstrate—it’ll be easier.” She turns, hops backwards onto the bar, and swings her legs over the top—while I discreetly try to get a peek up her shorts. If she’s wearing underwear, it’s gotta be a thong.

  My cock processes this information by straining against my jeans, hoping for a peek of his own.

  Dee stands up on the business side of the bar and quickly mixes her drink, explaining every move to the unperturbed bartender. She tosses an olive into the air and catches it expertly with her mouth, before sinking the two-olived toothpick into the clear-liquid-filled glass.

  She places it on the bar and motions to it with an open palm. “And there you have it—the perfect Dirty Martini.”

  I’ve always believed you can tell a lot about a person by what they drink. Beer is laid back, easy-going, or cheap, depending on the brand. Wine coolers tend to be immature or nostalgic. Cristal and Dom Pérignon imbibers are flashy and try too hard to impress—there are many champagnes that are just as expensive and exquisite, but lesser known.

  What does Dee’s choice of beverage tell me about her? She’s complicated, with very specific, but refined, tastes. And she’s outspoken, bold without being