Tonight, I’m a good boy though.
I make no promises for tomorrow.
CHAPTER TWO
Button-down shirt. Tie. Charcoal-gray pants. Dark brown hair, green eyes, chiseled jaw.
Yep, it’s all working.
I fully approve of myself this Friday morning, and if I were a dude in a cheesy movie, I’d give myself two thumbs up.
But honestly, I’m not that kind of guy. I mean, who does that?
Instead, I turn to my cat, Fido, and ask him what he thinks. His response is simple—he struts off in the other direction, his tail high in the air.
Fido and I have an understanding: I feed him, and he doesn’t cock-block me. He’d appeared on my balcony a year ago, meowing at the sliding glass door, wearing a tag that said “Princess Poppy.” I checked his collar, and found he belonged to this sweet little old lady in the building who’d just moved on to the Great Beyond. That sweet little old lady had, evidently, confused him for a girl. She’d left no relatives, nor any forwarding instructions for the cat. I took him in, ditched his pink sparkly collar, and gave him a name befitting his manhood.
It’s a win-win relationship.
Like tomorrow night. Fido won’t bitch and moan when I come home late. Because I fully expect to be stumbling through the door in the wee hours. I’m working tonight, but Jenny’s back on shift tomorrow, and I need to take my man Nick out to celebrate. His hit TV show was just re-upped for another season on Comedy Nation, and we plan to toast many times over at a watering hole in Gramercy Park. Besides, there’s a hot bartender there I’ve talked to a few times. Her name is Lena, and she makes a mean Harvey Wallbanger, so she put her name in my contacts as the drink itself. Well, part of the drink. Bang Her.
Sounds promising enough, and by promising I mean, a sure thing.
I take off and make my way uptown on the subway to the Upper East Side, my parents’ stomping ground. Yeah, they’re well off, but they’re also—shocker—not assholes. That’s right. This isn’t the story of a guy with a rich, shithead dad and a cold, bitchy mom. This is the tale of a guy who likes his parents and whose parents like him. Guess what else? My parents like each other, too.
How do I know this?
Because I’m not fucking deaf. No, I didn’t hear that when I was a kid. Instead, I heard my mom whistling a happy tune every morning when she woke up. I learned some good lessons from them. Happy wife = happy life, and one way to make a woman happy is in the bedroom.
Today though, my job is to make Dad happy, and Dad wants his offspring with him at this breakfast meeting, including my little sister, Harper. She walks toward me on Eighty-Second Street, her red hair like a sheet of flame. When she reaches me, she pretends she’s about to take a quarter from behind my ear.
“Look what I found. Wait. What’s that here?” She waves her hand behind my other ear and produces a tampon.
Her mouth falls into a shocked O. “Spencer Holiday. You’re carrying tampons now? When did you start getting your period?”
I crack up.
She reaches behind my other ear, and brandishes a small pill. “Oh look, here’s some Advil for when you get cramps.”
“Good one.” I smile. “Do you perform that one at all the children’s parties?”
“No.” Harper winks. “But it’s tricks like that that keep the moms booking me six months out.”
She joins me as we walk toward the restaurant on Third Avenue, wandering along one of those perfect New York blocks—the kind with wide stoops, and red brick brownstones, and trees with lush branches every ten feet. It looks like the set of a rom-com.
“How’s the city’s noted playboy? I heard Cassidy Winters said you were the best time she’s had in ages.”
I furrow my brow. “Who’s that?”
She rolls her eyes. “The hot trainer you were in the papers with. I sent you the picture last night. Didn’t you read the caption?”
I shake my head. “Nah. Besides, she was ages ago.” That’s what a few weeks feels like in the dating world.
“Guess she’s still singing your praises.”
“Looks like I’ll be erasing her number.” Flapping your gums will get you blackballed.
“Well, you better watch it with Mr. Offerman. Dad’s buyer,” she says, as a blue-haired lady walking a Pomeranian heads in our direction.
“You mean I shouldn’t hit on him?” I ask, deadpan. I stop in the middle of the block. Gyrate my hips. Give my best stripper stare. “Do a little dance.” I smack my own ass. “Back it up.”
Harper’s face goes beet red. She shifts her eyes in the direction of the lady. “Oh my god. Stop it.”
“So, don’t do my usual Chippendales’ routine, then?”
She grabs my arm, and pulls me along as we pass the dog owner. The woman waggles her eyebrows at me, and mouths, “Nice moves.”
See? Chicks dig me.
“Anyway, what I mean is, he’s very conservative. Family values and all. Which is why we’re here.”
“Of course. Act as if we’re a happy family and like each other. Right? Is that what I should do?” I say and give her a huge noogie. Because she deserves it.
“Ouch. Don’t mess up my hair.”
“Fine, fine. I get it. You want me to pretend I’m a choirboy and you’re an angel.”
She places her palms together in prayer. “I am an angel.”
We enter the restaurant, and my dad greets us in the lobby. Harper excuses herself for the ladies’ room, and my dad claps me on the back. “Thank you for joining me. You got the memo, right?”