“I’ll make you a deal,” Tom, one of my best friends, says while bouncing the ball and shooting it in the hoop. “Stay for cake and the speeches, then you can go.”

“I’ve got plans that night,” Benny, another friend, complains as he fights Tom for the ball. He narrowly misses as Tom, once again, scores.

“Since when do you have plans?” I ask Benny, blocking Tom and pulling down a rebound.

The two of them hopelessly try to catch me, to no avail.

Benny stops, leaning over with his hands resting on his knees to catch his breath. “Just something on.”

“Is it that chick? What’s her name . . .” I pause while thinking. “Tina. The one with those big tits that bounced every time she laughed at your lame joke about the nun and the priest?”

Tom stops mid-step, laughing very loudly until he breaks out in a nasty cough.

“That joke has gotten me laid more times than your mom has gone to church. And she goes every Sunday.” Benny laughs foolishly at his own joke.

“Hey, hey.” Tom walks over, raising his hands, then comfortably rests his elbow on my shoulder. “Cue the mom jokes, Benny.”

“Speaking of which,” I add purposely, just to annoy Tom. “This party you’re dragging us to is for your mom’s sixtieth. I’m all for a good time, Tommy, but cougars ain’t my style.”

Benny instantly curls his fist, covering his mouth while he hides his laugh, purposely goading Tom.

“Nice try, momma’s boy. You’re going. Mom has plenty of divorcee friends. Isn’t that your style anyway? Preying on the broken hearted?” Tom carelessly points out.

He had a point. I am known for my inability to hold down a relationship because I hate being tied down, and all the women I had spent time with carried enough baggage to fit into an A380. Cheating ex-husband, gay boyfriend, and worst of all, kids. No thanks.

“I’ll compromise,” I humor him. “I’ll stay till the cake is cut, give your mom one dance if she wears that low-cut purple dress with the rhinestones, and only if your hot cousin from Florida is there.”

“Fuck you,” he mouths in return. “I don’t know what Mom’s wearing but it ain’t that dress. Pass me the goddamn brain bleach. And my cousin is nineteen. We’ve been down that road, dude. Stay away.”

I move closer to Benny and place my arm around his shoulder. “If I’m going down, then you’re going down with me.”

“Fuck the both of you. I’ll be there only till six. I’m not dancing with your mom. And you better keep your granny on the other side of the room,” Benny warns Tom.

“What’s wrong with Granny?” Tom cries, pretending not to know that ‘Granny’ has wandering hands with a fetish for pinching asses. “You know, fuck you both. You better be there. That’s all. And Noah, make sure you bring your mom.”

The two of them whistle, only riling me up more. See, here’s the thing about my mom. She’s young. Forty-four to be exact. Got knocked up at sixteen to her college boyfriend, who vanished into thin air when he found out. Unlike Benny and Tom’s moms, mine is young, and according to them, has the body of a thirty-year-old. And just because they liked to fuck with me, they also add that she has the tits of an eighteen-year-old.

To them, the joke never gets old.

They’ve been my best friends since junior high and yet still, to this very day, they crack jokes about my mom and her body like it doesn’t bother me. It fucking bothers me, alright. No one—and I mean no one—talks smack about my mom.

“Screw you guys.” I throw the ball back at Tom, challenging him to a half-court shot. “Your shot. You get it in, I’ll attend your mom’s lame party and bring my mom.”

“And your mom will wear her black slutty dress with the open back?”

Son of a bitch. “Just shoot, would you?”

Tom moves to the center, positioning himself in line with the ring. Raising his arm, he practices his shot before releasing the ball. We all watch, eyes wide, waiting in anticipation as the ball flies through the air, then touches the back of the ring before falling through.

Fuck.

“Woo!” Tom cheers, running up and down the court like a lunatic. “See you Saturday night, boys.”

The party dragged on forever. Divorcees, drunk on cheap wine, dancing the Nutbush. Benny—being the dick he is—abandoned me well before the cake and dancing. One minute he was by my side trying to avoid being groped by Tom’s granny, and the next minute, he had disappeared.

I ended up pulling a Benny, slipping out and leaving a drunken Tom to fend for himself. Plus, I think he was this close to hooking up with one of his mom’s friends. He was always the first to admit he had a fetish for older woman—specifically MILFs—so this came as no surprise.

Then, I had to take care of me. I was itching to get laid. It felt like forever.

Okay, that’s a lie.

I have a life that most men fantasize about. A lifestyle filled with beautiful women, begging to be fucked, every which way possible. Letting go of any inhibitions. Sometimes in the act of revenge, and other times, just to fill the empty hole in their life.

It’s not like I purposely find these women. They just have a way of finding me. And I happen to be very intuitive. I’ve spent years studying women’s body language. Learning what each move means, when to strike, and when to walk away because their eyes begin to flash love hearts.

I have mastered the game.

And this game, the thrill of the chase, it’s just become too easy. Almost, predictable.

I mean, I don’t even have to try anymore. Where’s the challenge? The back and forth flirtatious gestures leading to witty banter. The two drink minimum, a promise to call, the exchange of phone numbers, goodbye.

I knew I was good.

But I didn’t know I was this good.

I had left the party and headed to our usual hangout—a local bar on the pier. I’m sitting beside a gorgeous woman that I just fucked.

Twice—if you want to count the insanely good blowjob.

She walked into this very bar an hour ago. Scanning the room with those puppy dog eyes, searching for something. A man, of course. It’s the same look they all have—sad and depressed. Tired, worn-out eyes, yet still dressed up hoping for some miracle.

She looked broken-hearted.

Ding, ding, ding!

I had it in the bag. She was sexy. Short with nice hips and long brown hair that flowed down her back. The red fitted dress did great things for her curves; The black slutty pumps looked amazing on her. They looked even better wrapped around my neck.

She loved it. She begged me to finish her off, insisting that it was exactly what she needed. That’s what they all say.

“Noah, I just need one night. Fuck me hard,” they all plead.

“Noah, make me forget him, you are so hot with a big dick. Bigger than his dick,” they all compliment.

Same ole story. But hey, who’s complaining? Definitely not my ‘big dick.’

They all want to be placed on a pedestal. Shown how the single life wouldn’t be so bad. Sex with another man gives them the satisfaction that, emotionally and physically, they have detached themselves from the one that broke their heart.

The woman beside me—Rose, I think—continues to sit in silence. Fuck, you can’t remember her name even after you screamed it in the hotel room. Lost in a daze, she traces the bottom of her glass, letting out a soft sigh every couple of minutes. Normally, I don’t entertain them afterwards. We always agree that it’s a one-time thing; they’re rebounding and I’m letting off steam from my stressful job. Okay, another lie I spun to make myself seem important. My job is breezy. But she asked me for a favor, a quick drink at the bar. And rarely do I do favors for people unless it’s my mom or my best friends.

“I know you’re probably wanting to get rid of me now,” she suggests, half-jokingly. “Can I ask you something?”

I try my damn hardest not to look at my watch, because in reality, I don’t have anywhere that I need to be. With a forced smile, I nod encouragingly, hoping to end this encounter within the next few minutes. Unless, of course, she’s up for round three.

Dammit, I’m getting hard again thinking about it.

She takes a sip from the glass, and one sip soon becomes an entire mouthful, until the glass sits empty on the coaster. She motions the bartender to replace the drink, turning to ask me the burning question, “Do you believe in karma, Noah?”

An odd question, especially coming from a woman that you’ve just been inside. I am no saint. If there is such a thing as karma, it would have hunted me down by now, chopped me into fine liver, and fed me to the wolves.

“I haven’t given it much thought. I guess so, maybe, why do you ask?”

She swivels the stool to face me, her eyes drunk and sleepy. The mascara that accentuated her long lashes has smudged under her eyes. Jesus, was she fucking crying and I had no idea?

“I’ll be honest,” she admits, keeping her voice low, “I really needed what happened between us tonight.”

They always do.

She picks up the toothpick that sits inside the glass, removing the olive between her fingers, and swirls the martini quickly. “But it’s just . . . I can’t help but feel guilty.”

Of course she does.

I have the speech memorized. It’s not the first time I have heard this. See, first comes lust, then comes fucking. Then straight after, say hello to your good ole friend guilt.

“Rose, I’m not going to push you to open up to me,” I tell her. Please don’t open up to me, I beg silently. I need to ease her guilt. Give her enough confidence to walk away with her head held high, no regrets.

“We all have our reasons for our actions, whatever they may be. You’re young, beautiful, and whoever hurt you, he has what’s coming to him.” Reassuring her with a smile, I place my hand on top of hers.

Her lips curve upwards, smiling innocently while taking some nuts from the bowl that sits on the countertop. Oh no, not the urine nuts! The amount of hands that have touched that bowl . . . Don’t go there. Just remember your mouth will no longer touch hers.

“I had a fight with the guy I’m seeing,” she tells me. “I thought he had spent the night trying to hook up with other women. We got into a fight, then he tells me he loves me. I told him to back off, and the only reason he said that was because I told him it’s over.”

“Is it over?”

“I don’t know. I think I love him. And now I’ve ruined everything. I came here looking for him and I walked away sleeping with you.” She painfully holds back her tears, shaking her head with guilt. “I practically bolted out of the room when he said he loved me. I was angry, hurt, and I couldn’t get over my jealousy. Women are always texting him.”

“That’s understandable. Love can do that to you,” I tell her.

Can you seriously hear yourself? What the fuck would I know? I’ve never been in love nor was it on my list of things to do. From my observations, emotions run high when you throw the word ‘love’ around. Nothing good could ever come out of laying your heart on the line only for it to get broken into a million pieces.

Maybe it could be compared to the time my mom washed my limited edition Lakers jersey in the wash with her red shirt. I almost cried, and I didn’t speak to her for days. Every night, I would go to bed hugging the damn thing, remembering all the good times we had.

The memory is still painful.

“But here’s the thing, we’ve been seeing each other on the down low and I didn’t expect us to get this far but we did. It’s been . . . fast . . . you know.”

“So, aside from that, what’s the problem? If you love him then tell him,” I respond casually, brushing off her overdramatic problem at hand. “So we slept together, he doesn’t have to know.”

She’s clutching at the napkin, twisting it with a restless jitter; I can see she is tormented by her decision to climb into bed with me tonight. She had foolishly assumed that she could emotionally detach herself from her ex-lover.

“I’ve ruined it between us. He’s such a kind-hearted guy and I ran looking for a rebound. You’re Mr. Rebound. Karma won’t let that one slide,” she openly wails.

“I’ve hurt him. When I ran, I think he took it personally. He’s um . . . unique,” she quickly adds. “But that doesn’t change how I feel about him. I love his qualities, you know. He has such a big heart.”

“Big heart, huh?”

That’s usually code for small dick, I laugh to myself.

“Unique like three-nipples unique?” I joke, thinking about Chandler in Friends and his ‘nubbin.’

Rose manages to half smile. “He has a prosthetic leg. I don’t care, trust me, I love him for who he is inside and out.”

My stomach flips, slowly churning as the gut-wrenching pain followed by the urge to vomit teeters on the edge. I clutch at the beer in front of me, drinking it in one go to calm the nervous energy building up inside. The sweat on my forehead builds, increasing my anxiety.

Please . . . please, let this be a coincidence.

“That’s . . . unusual.” I gulp.

“He lost it in a boating accident when he was five.” Bowing her head, she whispers in pain, “It’s so sad but he never lets it get to him. He told me it’s because his best friends won’t allow it. They’re like brothers to him and without them he would have probably killed himself.”

No . . . this can’t be happening. Please god, this can’t be happening.

A gust of wind rushes past as the door to the bar swings open.

And there, behind me, I feel his presence.

The man she is running from.

The knot in my stomach tightens, on the verge of combusting. With the deepest of breaths, my body moves painfully slow until I am met with his face.

Just like Rose believed, karma has a way of finding everyone.

It found me.

And standing beside it is my best friend Benny.